Jeffrey Lang

Jeffrey Lang is the author of several Star Trek novels and short stories, including Star Trek: The Next Generation: Immortal Coil and, more recently, the first book in the Star Trek: Voyager: String Theory trilogy, Cohesion. He’s very pleased about this opportunity to pen a tale about Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott, as they are among his favorite characters in the Trek universe, and would like to raise a metaphorical glass to De-Forest Kelley and James Doohan, the two wonderful actors who portrayed them. Cheers, gents. Bravo.

Lang is currently at work on his next project, a graphic novel. He lives in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, with his partner, Helen, his son, Andrew, and two troublesome cats.

The realization slowly dawned on Leonard McCoy: he had been staring at the same sentence on his computer screen for… well, how long, exactly? With his feet propped up on his desk, a cup of cold coffee by his elbow, and a crick in his neck, McCoy felt his eyes and mind both snap back into focus. Toggling to the document’s indexing tab, he saw he had been reading an article in the Journal of Experimental Psychology about how time travel could provoke psychotic breaks in individuals with repressed neurodevelopmental disorders.

Interesting topic, McCoy admitted grudgingly, one he could imagine himself pursuing at another point in his career. The thought brought him up short and he grumbled aloud, “Why not now?”

Unfortunately, one of the answers was obvious: He didn’t have time for such complex work. The day-to-day grind of managing sickbay, monitoring the crew, and especially working with the less-experienced medical staff was taking every moment and every erg of energy McCoy had to spare. Some Starfleet Medical functionary apparently had decided that every graduate-level med student, technician, and sawbones in the fleet had to spend a few weeks on board the only vessel to make it to the end of its five-year mission so they could watch the seasoned hands in action. Though he never would have admitted it, McCoy understood the reasons for the order. If he were the head of Medical, he might have done the same thing.

The other answer, the main answer-the important answer-simply was that he was tired. He felt old. Lifting his hand, he once again studied the tiny discolored patch on the back: his first liver spot. Modern medicine could do a lot to maintain vitality and check the ravages of time, but cellular apoptosis always won in the end.

Sadly, he wasn’t the only one feeling the ravages of age. Only a week earlier, the doctor had spent a couple of fruitless hours trying to track down the source of a peculiar odor in what was supposed to be his more or less sterile treatment room. After running several scans, McCoy had called Jason Riviera, the head of environmental services, and asked him to check the ventilation systems. Riviera had come himself (perhaps suffering from the same want of fulfilling labor), checked over sickbay with a specialized tool, and, grinning slightly, delivered his verdict: “You’ve got B.O., Doc.”

The meaning of Riviera’s comment did not immediately sink in, but when it did, McCoy took a self-conscious half-step back. “Pardon?”

“Sorry, Doc. That’s our little joke. Not you. Sickbay. Nothing personal. We’ve seen this in a couple other areas of the ship. Most of the air filters and scrubbers have been replaced multiple times, but sooner or later inert organic matter begins to accrete. When you consider how many people have been through sickbay since the Enterprise was commissioned, it was bound to happen.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

Clearly, Riviera had heard this question one or two times too many. “Since we can’t open a porthole, no. At least, not until we put in at a starbase.”

Nodding, McCoy felt exhaustion settle down over his shoulders like a sprinkling of fine, gray dust. “So, then,” he concluded. “B.O.”

“Yep.”

“Nothing we can do about it?”

“Nothing preventive,” Riviera said. “But I hear scented candles work pretty well.”

McCoy looked up from his contemplation of his cold coffee when sickbay’s main doors snapped open, and the doctor stared in glassy-eyed disbelief at that rarest of sights: his captain entering with not a sign of distress, physical, mental, or emotional. Jim Kirk eyed his chief medical officer cautiously as if he were waiting for some sort of outburst.

“What’s wrong?” McCoy asked.

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” Kirk said. “You look like you just had to put down your dog.”

“I do?” McCoy asked and tried to get a clear look at himself in the reflective surface of the computer monitor. “No, it’s nothing. I was just thinking: Did I ever tell you that sickbay has… that it’s ailing.”

“Sickbay is sick?” Kirk asked.

I wish I had thought of that, McCoy thought. Or, wait, maybe I don’t. “In so many words, yes. According to our chief environmental officer, too many people have come through those doors over the past several years and left bits of themselves behind.”

“Oh, right,” Kirk said. “I’ve received reports about other parts of the ship having the same problem. Apparently the bridge isn’t completely well, either.”

“You’d think that with all the technology available to us, we’d have a way…”

“Be careful what you ask for, Bones,” Kirk said. “Spock says that they’ve almost finished engineering a form of bacteria that they’ll release on board ships that will not only consume all the dead skin particles, hair, what have you, but they’ll also release minute amounts of oxygen.”

McCoy didn’t like the idea. “I can only imagine we’ll be fighting them for control of the ship someday.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“What brought you down to see me? Headache? Woman problem? Need a fourth for whist?”

“Whist?” Kirk asked.

“A card game. My grandmother used to play it.”

“Oh,” Kirk replied, clearly not certain he wanted the conversation to continue in the current vein, but compelled by who-knew-what to continue. “What made you think of that?”

“I’m feeling old today.”

“Well, then I have just the thing for you: I need you to take a little trip.”

“A landing party?” Though he felt exhausted, the idea of getting off the ship was appealing.

“Not exactly-a biotechnology conference on Starbase Ten. We’re on the slate to deliver a paper.”

“Biotechnology?” McCoy asked. “Not exactly my field, but I bet I have a couple things in my files that I could adapt. Now that I think about it,” he continued, a tiny iota of excitement creeping into his voice, “I had an idea for a project that might- “

“You won’t need to write anything, Bones, but we need a presenter, someone with seniority,” Kirk said. “Air of authority, you know?”

“Oh,” McCoy said, feeling both deflated and complimented despite his certainty that Kirk was buttering him up. “Well, I guess that’ll be all right.” Then another thought-an unpleasant thought-hit him. “It’s not one of Spock’s, is it?”

“The conference organizers seemed very excited about it,” Kirk said, obfuscating. “Some sort of breakthrough in man-machine interfaces, I think.”

McCoy groaned. “Am I even going to understand what I’m presenting?”

“Bones,” Kirk said cheerfully. “I’m surprised to hear you talk that way. When I asked who should go in his place, Spock said, ‘We are fortunate to have one of the finest scientific minds in the Federation aboard the ship.’”

“And you’re sure Spock wasn’t talking about Spock?” McCoy scowled. “And why can’t he go himself?”

“The Enterprise has been asked to assist with a large-scale astrometrics experiment near the Anthraces cluster. We’ll be rendezvousing with three other ships at the starbase, then proceeding from there. I’m sorry to say it, Bones, but it’s the kind of mission where we’ll need Spock more than we need another doctor on board.”

“There are quite a few of them around here these days, aren’t there?” McCoy asked. “Almost makes a man feel not wanted.”

“If it makes a difference, I’ll be sending Scotty along with you. He contributed to the paper, but, you know, he’s not much of one for delivery…”

McCoy nodded, cringing as he recalled a disastrous conference at Starfleet Command a couple years earlier. While Scotty could usually keep his brogue under control enough to be understood by non-Terrans, he had a tendency to digress from the main topic that resulted in long, spiraling discursions into esoteric engineering theory. Still, knowing that Scotty would be along made the idea of an excursion much more palatable. The engineer could always be counted on to find fun wherever fun was to be found if he could be coaxed to temporarily drop his obsessions with the Enterprise’s plumbing. “Okay, Jim. You got yourself a presenter.”

“Excellent,” the captain said as he turned to leave. “The text should be in your personal database by now.” Pausing in the doorway, Kirk looked back over his shoulder and said, “One other thing: The Lexington is expected to arrive at Starbase Ten after we depart. I’ve asked Commodore Wesley to give you and Scotty a ride when the conference is over and meet us closer to the cluster. No problem with that?”

McCoy’s compliance was built into the question. Kirk didn’t even stop to hear the response. “Of course not, Jim,” McCoy said to the closing door. “Whatever you say. You’re the captain.”

His head pressed deeply into his bunk’s thin pillow, Scotty said, “Well, that had to be one of the most depressing experiences of my life.” Oddly, the engineer sounded more bemused than depressed, but McCoy had to admit he was in a poor position to judge the difference. Somewhere roughly in the middle of the second day of lectures, meetings, and endless technical debates, he had lost all will to live.

“I’d be thrilled if my only problem was depression,” McCoy said from his bunk. “But I think I’m also suffering from a bout of murderous rage mitigated by nervous exhaustion and, oh, my back hurts. I think I’ve mentioned my mattress?”

“Aye, Doctor,” Scotty said. “Once or twice.”

“I’m going to kill Jim. And Spock. Spock first. They must have known how bad that was going to be and couldn’t face it.” McCoy tried to sit up, but the stabbing pain in his lower back flared and he surrendered to gravity. “And bad enough that the beds on the starbase were so bad, now we have to stay in the Lexington’s bowels.” McCoy knew that he was griping, that this was one of the things he was supposed to endure gracefully, but he didn’t feel like being gracious. “Are there rooms this small on the Enterprise?”

“Yes,” Scotty muttered. “But I had them all converted into equipment lockers.”

Listening to the usually good-natured engineer complain made McCoy feel better. “At least we’ll be able to eat again. What was that stuff they were trying to serve us for breakfast every morning? Some kind of oatmeal?”

“Nay,” Scotty said. “I thought it was grits.”

“Grits?” McCoy said, forgetting about the pain in his back and sitting up. “That, sir, is an insult to my sainted grandmother, Mamay, God rest her soul.”

Scotty grinned. “Well, don’t be saying such things about oatmeal then, or my Aunt Amelia will descend from on high and smite you with her wooden spoon. Oatmeal, indeed.” Then, he kicked his duffel off the end of the cot to make room for his feet, but didn’t seem to be able to get comfortable. “Food would be a fine idea, Doctor. What do you say we go see if we can find the mess hall?”

The sour sensation at the pit of McCoy’s gut flip-flopped and he decided he was hungry. His mood lightened again: Food would be just the thing. Then maybe they could find a recreation hall and see what fun there might be to have. Worse came to worst, he could always drop by sickbay and see what the CMO was working on. The Lexington was still actively engaged in frontier work; who knew what medical conundrums they might be facing?

As they rose to their feet (being careful to duck low so they did not hit their heads), the intercom whistled for attention. Scotty pressed the switch and said, “Scott here.”

“Commander Scott, this is Lieutenant Jordan, the second officer. Commodore’s compliments, sir, but we have a little bad news for you.”

Scott glanced at McCoy, then returned his full attention to the intercom. “Go ahead, Lieutenant. Dr. McCoy is here with me.”

“I regret to report that the Lexington has been diverted to handle an emergency situation at Mining Colony 47 in Sector 262. It means delaying the rendezvous with the Enterprise. “

McCoy felt himself breathe again. The assumption came so easily: that Jim and Spock had gotten into some damn-fool trouble without him to keep them in line.

“For how long?” Scott asked.

“Minimum of two weeks, sir.” Jordan paused, then had the decency to say, “Sorry.”

“You canna lend us a shuttle, Lieutenant? We could have it back to you in no time at all.”

“I checked that, sir, but the commodore says we may need them for emergency relief work. The transporters won’t be reliable at the mining colony because of trace amounts of magnetic ore. I assume you’ve heard…”

“Aye, lad,” Scotty said impatiently. “We know about that.” He scowled. “No other options for getting us back home?”

Jordan hesitated. “Well, yes, sir. There’s one, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to consider it.”

“Try us.”

“We could drop you off at the nearest planet and Enterprise could pick you up on their way back this way. They’re scheduled to be in the area in about twenty-two hours.”

“Planet?” McCoy asked. “What planet is that?”

“It’s a little off the beaten path,” Jordan said. “The locals call it Denebia.”

“Deneb V?”

“No. Denebia. You know, the place where the slime devils come from.”

Less than two hours later, McCoy and Scott, each carrying the small duffel he had brought along, were beamed down into a quiet cul-de-sac near the north edge of Meekrab, the planet’s main interstellar port town. At first glance, Meekrab was much like many of the port towns the Enterprise crew had visited over the years: Most of the buildings appeared to be either structures for housing goods or people in transit-warehouses or hotels. The problem, McCoy decided after a few minutes’ review, was that the proprietors of both forms of establishment did not seem to feel that cargo and guests should receive very different forms of treatment. If you happened to be cargo, then you were in good hands; if you were a guest, not quite so good.

After visiting three different hotels and reviewing the accommodations, Scott decided the only appropriate solution would be to find one of the other kinds of establishments that could always be found in port towns: a cheap bar.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Scotty?” McCoy said. His feet hurt from walking and his shoulder ached from carrying the duffel. Worse, their circadian clocks were not in synch with local time and his body was beginning to send signals that it was time to sleep.

“I think it’s the most bloody brilliant idea anyone has had all day. I can’t help but hope these so-called hotels will look a little more appealing after we’ve rested and collected our wits.”

“I’m just surprised the Lexington dropped us on a world without Federation lodgings.”

“Not every planet wants the Federation around,” Scotty said, pitching his voice low. “Especially not a world so close to the edge of Klingon space.”

McCoy tugged up on the shoulder strap of his bag, taking some of the pressure off his sore neck. “I haven’t noticed any hostile stares.”

“Me, either, but I suggest we both keep our jackets on while we’re outside, just in case.” Denebians and Terrans were similar enough to look at if you didn’t look too closely-bipedal, two eyes, two ears, one mouth and nose-but to McCoy’s eye Denebians were generally smaller and had a strange tendency to slump forward at the waist and shoulders. Also, he noted that Denebians-or Meekrabians in any case-all wore drab, utilitarian clothing. After only a couple of hours, McCoy felt hungry for some colors other than olive drab and dun. Their standard-issue field jackets blended in well enough, but their uniform shirts would probably create a stir.

“If we don’t want to be noticed,” McCoy argued, “all the more reason to stay out of public spaces. The sooner we get a room…”

“No one knows more about the best local accommodations than a bartender,” Scott retorted. “I’ll have us the two best rooms in the city in less than an hour. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for us to just relax for a bit. We’ve got less than twenty hours until we’re back on the Enterprise.”

Scotty must have spotted a likely location as they had been walking because not ten minutes later, the two Starfleet officers were seated on tall stools at a high, round table, their backs to the wall and two tall fizzy pink drinks before them. McCoy eyed his glass suspiciously. “No little umbrella?” he asked. “No crazy straw?”

“I asked for the local special,” Scott said. “Always a good idea to try the local special first.”

“But it’s pink,” McCoy said. He sniffed carefully, then waited to see what might happen. The bubbles tickled the inside of his nose, but nothing worse happened. “You first,” he continued, but he should have saved his breath. Scott’s glass was already half empty. McCoy stared at him blandly.

“It’s a little tart,” Scott said, “but palatable.” He nodded toward McCoy’s glass. “What are you waiting for?”

“To see if you go blind.”

Scott grinned but did not otherwise respond. Rather, he leaned his back against the wall and looked around the room. Content that his companion still possessed a modicum of motor control, McCoy sampled the pinkness. Scotty was correct: the drink was tart but not lacking a pleasing insouciance. “Reminds me of a cosmopolitan,” he noted.

“What’s that?” Scotty asked.

“A cocktail my ex-wife used to imbibe.”

Scott held his glass halfway to his lips, eyes crinkled in consternation. “Wife?” he asked.

“Ex-wife.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”

McCoy shrugged. “Ancient history.”

“I had no idea,” Scott confessed.

“Not something I talk about very often.”

“Must be the fuzzy pink drink.”

McCoy nodded absently, then replayed Scotty’s last statement in his head. “Fuzzy?” he asked softly. Shaking his head, then taking a healthy sip of his drink, he asked, “How about you, Scotty? Any skeletons rattling around in the closet?”

“Marital bliss?” Scott asked. “Nay, nay. Someday maybe, but not yet. Do you recommend it?”

McCoy shrugged, then felt some memories and a grin overcome him. “Some days, sure. The early days, definitely. One or two other days here and there…”

Scott grinned in response. “Glad to hear it. Not all bad memories, then. Maybe the drink’s doing its work.”

“Clearly.” Scott caught the bartender’s eye, then twirled his finger over their nearly empty glasses, the universal sign for another round. “Maybe I should scan the drinks before we have much more,” McCoy said.

“And take all the mystery out of life?” Scott asked, then stood and shrugged off his jacket. “A wee bit warm in here, izunit?”

“Now that you mention it,” McCoy agreed and shed his own jacket, though he briefly wondered what had happened to Scott’s concern about showing their uniforms. He noted that their movements had caught the attention of a pair of Denebians at the bar. Both men looked over their shoulders, appeared to glower briefly, then turned back to their drinks. A trio of men at a nearby table, all of whom wore the similar dirt-stained uniforms, glanced their way, but none seemed overly concerned. Only one man, a narrow-faced individual with a bristle-brush mustache seated alone in the corner, stared for more than a second. The Denebian probably would have stared longer if he hadn’t noticed McCoy trying to make eye contact, but then the bartender arrived with their second round and interrupted his line of sight.

One healthy gulp of pink fizziness later and McCoy was no longer thinking about the suspicious-looking stranger or, for that matter, much else. A pleasant lethargy crept over him and the doctor found himself ruminating about the past several days from a less-hostile position. The horrible conference continued to irk him, but the pain had become less acute, more like a banged shin and less like an impacted wisdom tooth. The memory of his bout of cabin fever swam up out of the depths and McCoy found himself wondering if he was going to feel any different when they returned to the ship. The question came out of his mouth before he had a chance to complete the thought. “Scotty,” he said. “Do you ever think about what you’re going to do after we finish this tour of duty?”

Scotty, who had been in the middle of a long pull, half-lowered his glass and stared into the middle distance. “Do?” he asked. “What do you mean? Like, take a vacation?”

“Well, sure, maybe,” McCoy replied, suddenly aware that he might be entering metaphorically murky waters. “But I was thinking more along the lines of after that. For example, would you consider a hitch at Starfleet Academy as a teacher? Maybe the shipyards on Mars? Or…?”

Scott set his drink down on the table and locked eyes with McCoy. “You’re talking about not being on the Enterprise?” He said this in a tone that McCoy imagined he reserved for young engineers who confused the plus and minus poles on a chemical battery.

“It’s an option,” McCoy said, struggling to sound casual.

“One you’ve been considering?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

Scott picked up his glass again and took a long pull. “Interesting,” he said. “Any idea what you might like to do?”

“Not exactly,” McCoy admitted. “Travel, maybe.”

“More than you’ve traveled in the past five years?”

“Not at warp speed. Maybe just on one planet for a while. You ever consider that, Scotty? The number of worlds we’ve visited where essentially we saw one room or, if we were lucky, one city. On the really good days, we got to see a cave or a rocky landscape. We got to see the forests but rarely the trees.”

Scott nodded, conceding the point, but then offered, “But we got to see the stars, Dr. McCoy. Some of them stars no human had ever seen before us.”

“And they were wonderful, Scotty, and I’ll treasure the memories, but for all their fiery brilliance, the stars can seem very cold.”

Scott smiled appreciatively. “That’s lovely, Doctor. Perhaps you should consider taking up poetry.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this quite a bit already.”

“Some,” McCoy admitted. “It’s been in the back of my mind for a while.”

“You don’t think the captain would want you to stay on?”

“You’re working on the assumption that Jim Kirk would still be captain of the Enterprise.”

The engineer guffawed. “Like they’d be able to drag him out of the center seat.”

McCoy shook his head. “Don’t be naive, Scotty. It’s not entirely up to him, you know. If Starfleet wants to promote him, they’ll promote him.”

“He’d turn it down,” Scott said flatly.

“Not if the powers that be convince him that leaving would be for the greater good. You know Jim’s a sucker for that kind of thing.”

“What greater good?” Scott asked skeptically. “What could possibly be better for the galaxy than having James Kirk as captain of the Enterprise?”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Scott, but there might be those who think he owes it to the next generation to teach them what he’s learned.”

“An entire generation of Jim Kirks flitting around the galaxy?” Scotty scoffed. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a very good idea. Consider how many broken hearts that might produce.”

“I don’t think they would want Jim to teach that particular skill set.”

“No,” Scott agreed soberly. “Perhaps not.” He brooded for a moment, then asked, “And if he did leave, who would take over? Mr. Spock?”

“I seriously doubt it,” McCoy said. “If Jim left, I imagine Spock would leave with him. I can’t imagine those two not working together.”

“Sulu, then? I know he’s keen on the idea of commanding his own ship, but I don’t see them moving him up so quickly.”

“Maybe it should be you, Scotty. You’ve sat in the chair more times than anyone besides Jim or Spock.”

Scott tossed back the remains of his drink and laughed loudly. “Ha! Now there’s as daft an idea as any I’ve heard in a long time. Me?! Captain of the Enterprise!” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “I’d consider it a demotion. I’m already her master; why would I want to be a captain?”

McCoy grinned, then, finding the comment funnier and funnier every second, began to laugh along with his friend. Maybe it was the drink or, as the case was, drinks. Or maybe it was the relief of finally discussing some of the things that had been swimming around in his head for the past several weeks. Whichever, Leonard McCoy tilted his stool back on two legs and laughed with gusto.

When the two of them finally quieted down a couple of minutes later and were ordering another round, McCoy noticed that the narrow-faced man with the bristle-brush mustache was no longer in the pub. A mostly-full glass of something remained on the table for a long while as their chat continued and the Starfleet officers began to work on their third round, but when no one returned to claim it, the waiter picked up the glass and unceremoniously dumped its contents into the sink behind the bar. Strange, McCoy thought, and then completely forgot about it.

Spaytak couldn’t believe his good fortune. Well, not the part where he had to leave most of his drink on the table, but when he heard what he heard, there was no way he could stay seated. The master of the Enterprise was in Meekrab! How many others might know this? Stooped low while attempting to cloak his lanky form in the odiferous gloom that wreathed the alley between Nirah’s bar and the butcher shop, Spaytak struggled to order his thoughts. There were, he decided, two possible answers: nobody else and everybody else. Money might be made if the first answer was the correct one, so Spaytak proceeded as if it were. The question, then, was who to approach. He knew the answer immediately, though he spent a couple more minutes crouched down in the semi-liquid darkness just in case another idea swam past in the shallow trough that ran down the middle of the alley. Alas, nothing stirred. “Krong, then,” he muttered, and briefly touched his forehead with the tips of his right hand in silent prayer.

Spaytak hated Krong. He also, after his fashion, worshipped him. Krong was everything Spaytak wished he could be and knew, in his heart, he was not. Krong was strong, fierce, clever, and worldly, and generally had a clean but manly aroma. In contrast, there was at least one bookie taking bets on when the funk that swirled around Spaytak would spontaneously combust.

Krong was a Klingon, and according to Spaytak’s limited knowledge of the man, he would most likely be in a bar. The question: Which bar? Krong had a few favorites that he liked to rotate through based on some arcane formula known only to him.

Spaytak actually prided himself on knowing things. If he had owned a business card, it might say something like “Spaytak Narwingenssen, Information Purveyor.” Less kind observers, if they could be convinced to admit they knew Spaytak, would have called him a spy. The select minority who had actually used his services knew the correct title: Spaytak was a sneak, though not a particularly good one. On the couple of occasions when he had been able to score premium intelligence, the wind-falls had been mostly a result of the fact that he could blend into the background, as long as the background was a mottled gray color.

While Krong had never purchased information from Spaytak, he had bought him the odd (sometimes very odd, sometimes wriggling) dinner here and there, usually because when Krong was deep enough in his cups, he craved company-any company-and very few Denebians were willing to risk their reputations being seen with a Klingon. Since Spaytak had no reputation worth saving, he also had no such reservations.

A flutter of a breeze from the southwest told Spaytak that the garbage barge was leaving the docks, which also meant the fishmongers were selling what was left of their weekend catches at half price. He recalled that Krong seemed to particularly enjoy the small, silver fishes called fren, but only if they were at least three days old. Spaytak also remembered that there was a bar near the dock-Jarek’s-that would permit the Klingon to bring in a bucket of three-day-old fren and eat handfuls of the stuff as long as he washed it down with jugs of their overpriced bloodwine. As good a place as any to start looking.

The fren were too old to be wriggling and too young to have fermented properly, yet still Krong scooped up a handful, opened his mouth, and let them slide off his palm down into his gullet. If he was lucky, one of the fish’s small bones would become lodged in his windpipe and he would choke to death. None of them did, so Krong had no choice but to chug a half liter of bloodwine to wash the greasy flavor from his mouth. When he was finished, he tapped his mug on the edge of the table, the signal to the barkeep that he required a refill. When he had first arrived on Denebia, he had employed the time-honored Klingon signal of throwing the mug at the barkeep’s head, but Denebians’ skulls weren’t as thick as Klingons’ and there had been some near-fatalities. Jarek-Krong couldn’t believe he knew the man’s name, but he did-nodded, hefted the small keg up under his meaty arm and walked the length of the bar to where Krong perched on his customary stool at the left-most edge.

The bar was as full as it usually was at the noon hour-dock workers coming in for fried bread and a beer-but no one dared sit in any of the three stools to Krong’s immediate right. When he had first come to this horrible, stinking city, no one would sit in any of the next four stools. Krong sighed and shook his head minutely. His prestige was being slowly whittled away. An ignoble fate, like being nibbled to death by tribbles.

For the twelve thousand and forty-second time since that horrible day, Krong wondered what had possessed M’kar, his commanding officer, to turn away from him at the fateful moment when he was about to deliver the honorable blow that would elevate Krong to first lieutenant. Afterward, one of Krong’s shipmates had told him that M’kar had been distracted by Shajara, whose chest plate had been particularly snug that day, but Krong had never known for sure. All he knew was that instead of a promotion, he had been exiled from Klingon space.

No one had liked M’kar enough to seek revenge on Krong, so the only other option had been ritual suicide, an option his father had strictly prohibited until all other paths had been exhausted. When he had last heard from his family several months ago, one of his uncles claimed to be making some progress in finding the bottom rung of the long ladder of factotums that would inevitably lead to the ears of the high council, but Krong had long ago given up hope. He knew he was going to die on Denebia, in this city that smelled of urine and fish. The only question that remained was whether he would finally do the job himself or goad someone into doing it for him.

Looking up, Krong saw his reflection in the greasy mirror behind the bar. What he saw reminded him of something he would once have scraped off the bottom of his boot. No-wait- he would have thrown the boots into the garbage rather than try to scrape off what he beheld.

Somehow, magically, his mug was full again. Krong considered pressing his face into the thick, crimson liquid and snorting it into his lungs. How much would he have to take in to drown himself? He inhaled deeply and mulled over the idea, but then winced when his sinuses were stung by an unexpectedly sharp tang. For a second, Krong thought maybe the fren had suddenly taken a turn for the better, but then memories of previous encounters with the aroma slid into place.

Spaytak.

Surprisingly, the Denebian had managed to ooze onto the stool next to Krong’s without the Klingon hearing him. Krong chose to believe this was possible because he had been preoccupied with other, more pressing matters, but his more ruthless inner self smacked him on the forehead for being careless and losing his edge.

“Hey, Krong,” the Denebian said.

“What do you want?” Krong asked without turning his head to look at his visitor. Rather, he took a pull from his mug, set it on the bar, then picked up the two-pronged fork he had been given with his fren.

Spaytak had the good sense to shift nervously at the sight of a Klingon with a pointy object. Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Krong thought, but then had to concede, But not very much.

“I have some important information,” Spaytak whispered, apparently forgetting the cardinal rule of imparting important information.

“I’m thrilled for you. Go away.”

“But it’s really import- “

Faster than Spaytak could slither away-or even blink, for that matter-Krong stabbed the prongs of the fork through the sleeve of the spy’s cuff, pinning it to the bartop. With the Denebian immobilized, it was a simple matter for Krong to reach over and reluctantly pinch the bridge of the Denebian’s nose between his forefingers and squeeze. Spaytak began to screech, but cut it off when Krong said, “Shut up.”

Spaytak tried to nod, but couldn’t move his head.

“When I loosen the pressure on your nose, I’m going to let you say one word. If that word isn’t good-bye- which, yes, I know, technically is two words, but I’ll allow that under the circumstances-then the word you say had better be very, very compelling or I will be forced to grind your nose up into your forebrain. And, before I do or say anything else, please let me express how very, very displeased I am that I have to touch you.” He paused then to wet his lips with his tongue. This was the longest single speech Krong had made in several weeks and his lips were cracked. Finally, he said, “Ready?”

Spaytak whimpered.

Krong loosened his grip slightly.

Spaytak appeared to be thinking, which Krong considered a very bad sign. He might actually be trying to find a word that wasn’t good-bye and wouldn’t result in his being killed. Krong wondered how hard he would have to strike the Denebian to slay him and whether he could do it at the present angle without putting down his mug. Well, what the hell, he decided. I’ll just have to hit him twice.

Finally, after several long, agonizing seconds, Spaytak whimpered, “K-K-K-Kirk.”

Krong lowered his head to reflect on the moment. The Denebian hadn’t said good-bye, but he had to confess he wasn’t sure precisely what he’d said. Maybe his mind had snapped under the pressure. The choice of responses was staggeringly large, but he settled for, “What?”

Spaytak did not immediately reply… or repeat himself. Instead, with slightly greater volume, he said, “Spock.”

Krong said, “That’s not what you said the first time.”

“I know,” Spaytak said, except it came out more like “I dough,” because Krong was still squeezing pretty hard. “But I wanted to say both words or else you wouldn’t understand…”

Krong squeezed harder, cutting off the Denebian’s voice and, likely, breath. “I still don’t understand. And not understanding is giving me a headache. I’m not very pleasant when I have a headache, so I vehemently urge you to dispel my confusion. Now.” He loosened his grip.

“Kirk and Spock,” Spaytak sputtered. “From the Federation Starship Enterprise. They’re here. They’re in a bar alone. Talking. Drinking…”

Not sure whether to laugh or weep with pity, Krong decided to compromise and simply reasserted pressure on Spaytak’s nose and pulled the Denebian’s face closer to the top of the bar. Leaning in (despite the churning stomach Spaytak’s odor provoked), he said quietly, “There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know how to begin explaining them all to you, so I’m not going to try. As a substitute, I’m going to make your face a permanent feature of this bar.”

To Krong’s surprise, Spaytak neither tried to escape nor prevaricated. He stuck with his story: “It’s true, Krong. One of them said he was the captain of the Enterprise. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to come here and tell you this if I didn’t hear it with my own ears?”

Krong had to wonder: Was Spaytak that stupid? The Klingon was surprised to discover the answer that came to him was, No, he isn’t. Delusional, perhaps. Inflated with entirely inappropriate self-importance, yes. But not stupid. It would be dishonorable to kill a man or even severely dent his skull simply for being an idiot, wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t it?

Krong released his grip on Spaytak’s nose and turned back to the mirror. “I don’t care,” he said. “And even if I did care, even if I, for a solitary nanosecond, entertained the thought that you might be right, then I would have to do something far worse than kill you for the indiscretion of introducing the concept of hope into my existence. Do you understand?”

Spaytak nodded once, then allowed the bridge of his nose to touch the cool bar top. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Good. Get out of my sight.”

The Denebian scurried away. When the sound of his flat footfalls had receded out the door, Krong turned and looked at the handful of dour, gray faces. None of the pairs of eyes dared to meet his own. That was something, wasn’t it? At least they all still feared him and would not look Krong’s way. He turned back to the mirror and looked at his reflection one more time. Krong had many faults; he knew this to be true, but self-delusion was not one of them. He looked at himself and knew that it was possible none of the pasty-faced Denebians would meet his eyes because none of them could even see him anymore. Or maybe, he reflected, they simply thought he was just one of them.

Outside the bar, Spaytak’s cadre of associates waited for him. The three diminutive, shuffling forms called Mot, Lort, and Churt stood around the immense jiggling bulk that was their youngest brother, Dorsoll, like planetoids trapped in the gravity well of a gas giant. Mot, always the first to speak (if not to think) stepped forward and asked, “Well? What did he say? How much will he pay?”

Spaytak knew he had only seconds to provide a convincing response. If he hadn’t been so worried that the Klingon was going to change his mind about the merger between Spaytak’s face and the bar, he would have taken his time and come up with a satisfactory story. Mot, Lort, and Churt-with almost an entire brain between the three of them-would find some way to fade into the shadows if Spaytak couldn’t convince them there was motivation to remain. Dorsoll, he knew, would stay with him until some other, stronger drive (probably hunger, possibly a flood tide) carried him away, but the oaf was useful only as long as the other three were nearby to goad him into action. Spaytak did not see himself in that role. He was a planner and a plotter, but not so much the man of action. He needed the three smaller brothers to stay. “He wants us to bring them here,” Spaytak lied, and then added, “for interrogation.”

“What’s our cut?” Lort asked. He was almost as clever as Mot, but usually quieter and more deferential.

“We didn’t discuss cuts,” Spaytak admitted. Always a good idea to mix in some true things. “I’m not worried, though. If we pull this off, there’ll be enough to go around.”

“What if the Klingon tries to pull a fast one?” Mot asked. “I don’t trust him.”

“And I don’t trust you,” Spaytak said. “But we’re all in this together. And if Krong tries to double-cross us, well, there’s five of us and only one of him.”

“But what about them?” Lort asked. “The Fleeters. We’ve heard stories about those guys. Everyone has. They have all kinds of arcane fighting techniques.”

“And superhuman strength,” Mot said.

“And what about our women?” Churt asked. “Everyone knows the tales. If that Kirk guy gets anywhere near them…”

“You say that,” Spaytak sneered, “like you might actually have a woman.”

“I have a mother,” Churt said. “That’s enough for me to worry about Captain Kirk being on the same planet.”

“Stop worrying about what the Fleeters might do and start worrying about me.” Spaytak lowered his head and put his face so close to Mot’s that one of the small hairs that projected out of the tip of the runt’s nose tickled his own. Mot pulled back and looked like he was about to protest, but he must have seen something in Spaytak’s bleary red-rimmed eyes that made him pause. “When I left the pub, they were already three drinks in. By now, they’ve probably had at least one more, and maybe two.”

“One more what?” Churt asked. “What were they drinking?”

The corner of Spaytak’s mouth curled up. “What do all the offworlders get?”

After a moment, Mot and Lort-both slightly quicker on the uptake than Churt-chuckled ominously, and a moment later their brother added his glee to theirs. Dorsoll, who had been as quiet and unperturbed as a support pylon, must have enjoyed hearing his brothers’ laughter because after a second he joined in, too. The giant oaf had a disconcertingly high-pitched chuckle, like something that would come out of an infant, and the sound made Spaytak’s skin crawl. Why do I work with these fools? he wondered, though he knew the answer: They were the best fools he could afford. When this deal was done, Spaytak decided, and the prize was his, he would kill them and find new help more in keeping with his status.

Time oozed by. Their conversation, McCoy noted, also seemed to be oozing. Pondering the currently very plastic nature of his consciousness motivated the doctor to do a quick (well, not all that quick) mental calculation. After rechecking his math a couple of times, McCoy realized that he and Scotty had been awake (if “awake” was a fair assessment of their current condition) for the better part of the past twenty-four hours. Tuning back into the conversation, McCoy began to understand that Scotty’s response to exhaustion was quite different from his own: The engineer had become quite animated, even manic.

“And another bloody thing,” Scotty said, slapping the tabletop, “why is it that it’s always the captain and Spock who get the credit for saving civilization?! I’ve saved civilization plenty of times!”

This claim roused McCoy’s interest. “How many times?”

Scott’s eyes shifted around the room as if he were reading the answer off the walls. Finally, he said, “Four.”

“That’s a lot of times.”

“It is.”

“And you died a couple times, too,” McCoy remembered.

“I did, didn’t I? That’s gotta count for somethin’!” The more excited he became, the thicker Scotty’s accent grew. “No one ever seems to remember those sorts of things. It’s always, ‘Captain Kirk saved this,’ and ‘Mr. Spock rescued that.’ All I want is a little respect, a little acknowledgment.”

“You still have your reputation as a miracle worker,” McCoy offered.

“Oh, well, sure. That. I do enjoy that.”

“And you said you wouldn’t want to be a captain.”

“Nay.”

“Well, then, what’s to complain about?”

Scotty stared balefully into the middle distance, then turned to McCoy, apparently finally noticing the doctor’s head was near the tabletop. “A wee bit tired, then, Leonard?”

McCoy nodded minutely. “A wee bit.”

“Well, then, we’ll be goin’ about finding lodgings.” McCoy sighed with relief as Scotty rose to his feet. “After just one more round.”

“Scotty,” McCoy moaned. “I can’t feel my extremities.”

“Oh, come on. These pink fizzy things aren’t that strong.”

“It has nothing to do with the fink pizzy… Okay, maybe a little. But it’s very late. Or very early. One or the other.” Distantly, a part of McCoy’s brain wondered why he didn’t just head out on his own and leave the engineer to find his own lodgings, should he choose. An even more distant portion of his mind responded with the simple answer: He didn’t want to be alone on a strange planet. McCoy turned this puzzling observation around in his mind: When had he turned into someone who disliked being alone? Or, put another way, when had he turned into an individual who was unaccustomed to being alone? The response was breathtaking in its simplicity: If you spend five years gallivanting around the galaxy with a group of people in a tin can-even a really big tin can-almost anyone would lose their tolerance for isolation. How long had it taken? And what would be the long-term effects? More importantly, how would this affect the whole structure of Starfleet in the future? In a flash, McCoy clearly saw that Constitution-class ships like the Enterprise wouldn’t be enough soon. A starship couldn’t be merely a vessel: It had to be a community.

He sat up straight. Could he be the only one who was feeling the effects? He looked over at his friend, the chief engineer of the flagship of the fleet: He was frantically waving at the bartender for another round. “Obviously not,” McCoy said aloud.

“Obviously not what?” Scott asked.

McCoy pondered how to approach the question and decided to soft-pedal it. “Something that came to me while I was listening to you. An interesting question. Maybe even a thesis.”

Scott seemed genuinely intrigued. “An idea for a paper?”

“Maybe,” McCoy said, and found that he liked the idea very much. Feeling much more alert suddenly, he concluded, “Yes, I think it might be. Or even a long-term project.”

“Lovely,” Scotty said. “Then I’ll expect to be acknowledged in the notes section and invited to the conference when you deliver it.” The bartender arrived with their drinks, set them down, then cleared away the last round and the credits Scotty had slapped down on the counter. “Let’s drink to it,” the engineer said, raising his glass.

“Aye, Mr. Scott. Let’s.” They touched glasses, but before McCoy sipped any of his, he stopped the bartender and asked, “By the way, what are these things called, anyway?”

“The drink?” the bartender asked. He was a short, thickly built individual with a small circle of spiky black hair at the center of his head, but was otherwise bald.

“Yes.”

“We call those Denebian slime devils.”

Scotty, who had been in the process of taking a large slurp, sputtered and sprayed the mouthful out his nose. McCoy speedily pushed himself away from the table, almost overtipping his chair, but found he couldn’t help but giggle at the engineer’s expression of disbelief. “What,” McCoy asked, “could have provoked such a reaction?”

“A Denebian slime devil?” Scotty gasped.

“Sure,” the bartender said. “Not too many other things to name a drink after on Denebia.”

“But why?” Scott asked. “What does a pink, fuzzy drink have in common with a slime devil?”

“Keeping in mind,” McCoy inserted, “that we may not want to know all the details about how they’re made.”

“I’ve heard a lot of answers to that question over the years,” the bartender said, “but the best one anyone’s come up with is that the drink is like the slime devil because when you’re least expecting it, they both suddenly wake up and disembowel you.”

Scotty narrowed his eyes at his half-empty glass, then concluded, “Good to know.” He turned his gaze back to McCoy and said, “Doctor, I think it’s time to call it a night.”

McCoy nodded and gestured toward the door. “After you, sir.”

The bartender gave Scotty a respectful nod as the engineer got off his stool. “Pleasant evening, Captain.”

“Huh?” Scotty said, but the bartender had already gone to take someone else’s order. Scotty blinked a few times. “Did he just call me captain?”

“I think so,” McCoy replied placidly. “Though it has been a long night and I could be mistaken.” Regarding Scotty curiously, he asked, “What was that all about? You have a problem with Denebian slime devils?”

“Well, no,” Scott said, a tad embarrassed. “Not as such.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Not really.”

“Would you like to? I hear they have a couple at the local zoo.”

“Not really, no.”

“Then…?”

“It’s a long story, Doctor. Didn’t I ever tell you about the time me and Chekov and the others got into the fight with the Klingons on Station K-7?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t remember the part where the Klingon called the captain a Denebian slime devil?”

McCoy searched his memory. The story had been elevated to shipboard legend, but the detail about the slime devil had heretofore eluded him. “I guess not,” he decided.

Reseating himself, Scotty said, “Well, then, aye, finish your drink while I tell you. See, it all started when the Klingon started saying as how the captain…”

Spaytak had only ever seen one offworlder finish more than three slime devils, and that poor, benighted soul had been rushed to either the hospital or the decontamination center, Spaytak couldn’t remember which. According to the bartender, Kirk and Spock had finished nine or ten between them, though he hadn’t been clear who had drunk more. He would have expected Kirk to have more, but from where he sat hunched in the shadows across the street, Spaytak thought Spock was the one who looked the worse for wear, wobbling a little woozily on the stairs down to the otherwise deserted sidewalk. Behind him, he heard Mot and Lort arguing in (for them) hushed tones about which of them would take on the Enterprise captain and which the first officer. The sounds of the argument were punctuated by various slaps, smacks, and a noise that could only be the sound of one man yanking on the other’s nose. Gingerly, Spaytak touched his own nose where Krong had grabbed it and silently vowed to avenge himself on someone or another sometime soon.

Without turning, Spaytak hissed, “Shut up, you idiots.” The pair fell silent. “Now where’s Churt? He said he could get a vehicle.”

“He’ll be here,” Mot said. “Or I’ll disembarass him.”

Spaytak frowned.

“Here he comes,” Lort whispered. “Just like we planned.”

Like we planned? Spaytak thought but didn’t say aloud. Better that the fools think they were an integral part of the plan, when in reality they were mostly just being used as ballast. Having reasoned that Kirk and Spock couldn’t be taken by force-especially not the force Spaytak had to muster-he had decided to use guile. If things did get rough, Mot, Lort, and Churt might be able to subdue one of the Fleeters and Dorsoll would likely be able to pacify the other if the oaf could be convinced to sit on his opponent. The important thing was that neither Kirk nor Spock be killed, at least not until they had been delivered to Krong. What the Klingon did with his prisoners after he had paid Spaytak was inconsequential… as long as the Denebian got to watch.

Spaytak decided not to ask where Churt had procured a hired vehicle, though the cab looked as if it had recently been hauled out of an open sewer. Neither of the Fleeters raised an eyebrow when the vehicle screeched to a halt in front of them, but seemed to accept it as their due. Churt lowered the side window screen and asked if they needed a ride.

Staring out into the gloomy evening, Kirk seemed to ponder the question for what felt like a very long time, but then finally said, “Might you know where we could find a couple comfortable rooms for the night?”

Spaytak couldn’t believe his ears. How could it have worked out any better? He had been anticipating that the Fleeters would ask to be taken to a particular hotel and then Churt would have to pretend to get lost, but this… this was too good to be true. Unfortunately, this fact registered on Churt, too, and the lummox actually turned to look at the spot in the dark alley where he thought Spaytak was hiding and leered gleefully. Then he turned back to Kirk and said, “Certainly. Climb on in, gents, and I’ll take you to the nicest, cleanest little joint in this part of town. It’s run by my sweet old auntie. She makes the best galopoly stew in town.”

“Oh, aye?” Kirk asked as he tugged open the rear door and guided his first officer into the rear of the vehicle. Spock didn’t so much climb in as tumble forward. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had that.”

“You’ll love it!” Churt cried. “It’s sensational. She even makes her own noodles!”

“That sounds lovely, it does. You think she has any about tonight? I could do with a bite before putting me head down.” Kirk elbowed his companion. “What do you think? Fancy a little stew?”

“Ehhhhh…” Spock said without lifting his head from the seat. Apparently the stories about these two having an almost telepathic bond was true because Kirk simply said, “All righty then. Off we go.”

And off they went into the night. Spaytak was flummoxed. “It can’t be this simple,” he said aloud.

“Whataya mean it can’t?” Mot asked. “You got us working with you. Of course it’s gonna be simple.”

Spaytak knew better than to try to respond to that. Instead, he said, “He knows to drive around for a bit, right? We have to get to Krong before Churt does.”

“He’ll remember,” Mot said. “‘Cause if he doesn’t, I’ll castigate him.”

Eyes narrowed, Spaytak stared down at the ugly little man in disbelief, then finally asked, “Don’t you mean…?” Observing the blank stare, he said, “Never mind. Let’s go.”

The driver hummed tunelessly and tonelessly as he guided the vehicle through Meekrab’s narrow, dirty, underlit streets. Scotty, veteran of many a late-night pub crawl, strongly suspected they were being taken to the hotel by a longer than necessary route in order to inflate the fare, but decided he did not particularly care. Unfamiliar coins jingled in his coat pocket and, as he always did whenever he visited a planet that used hard currency, Scott knew that when they arrived at the hotel he would set aside one of each so that later he could throw the coins into a wood box he kept on his nightstand. Whenever Scott returned to Earth for a visit, he would take along the box of mementos to show to his nephew Peter, who would engagingly ooh and aah over each and every one.

Keeping one eye on the driver, Scott glanced over at the doctor who sat quietly, his eyes half shut. He didn’t like the idea of having to wake McCoy, so he decided to keep him engaged. “What’s on your mind, Leonard?”

“Hmmm?” McCoy tried to sit up, but the seat was slippery with age and wear, so he surrendered back into a slump. “Oh, I was just thinking about the tribbles.”

Scott cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“There’s something that always bothered me about what happened with them. You know, back on the Enterprise.”

“Aye?”

“When you beamed them to the Klingon ship…”

“Aye.”

“I’ve always wondered… what do you suppose the Klingons did with them?”

“Eh?”

“Well, they didn’t make them into pets, right? The Klingons hate them.”

“No, I expect not.”

“And they wouldn’t eat them, would they?”

Scott shook his head. “Not much there to eat, even for a Klingon.”

“So… what?”

Scott considered the options, then, after a long moment, conceded, “I expect they probably… beamed them into space.”

McCoy nodded and muttered, “Me, too.”

Scott slumped back into his seat. “Well, now I’m depressed again.”

“Sorry I brought it up,” McCoy said.

“Stupid Klingons.”

“Nothing you can do about it now.”

“Poor little beasties…”

The hour had grown late and the shadows in Jarek’s had grown so long that Krong was no longer sure what the bartender was pouring into his mug. The Klingon suspected the place was now empty except for himself and Jarek, but the owner knew better than to ask Krong to go before he was ready.

Krong looked up at his reflection in the smoky mirror and asked himself, Am I ready? Is it time to leave this pathetic existence? Do I feel one single iota of hope anywhere within me? Looking inward, he explored every nook and cranny, searching for a glimmer of anything that might resemble a reason to continue. Looking outward again, he held his hand up in front of his face and found he could barely make it out. “Too dark,” he grumbled.

Without warning, Krong felt a damp, cold wind at his back and the overhead lights blazed forth blindingly. Krong clamped his eyes shut and growled, “Too bright!”

Someone behind him shouted, “We have them! They’ll be here in a minute, Krong!”

Krong felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. “If I turn around and that’s you, Spaytak, then I’m going to have to kill you. Slowly. If it isn’t you, then whoever you are, I’ll have to kill you because you made me think of Spaytak and I cannot forgive that.” He felt a hand fall on his shoulder to pull him around. The temerity! His hand fell onto the hilt of his mek’leth. “Now I have to kill you because you actually have the gall to lay your filthy- “

It was, in fact, Spaytak who was touching him-actually touching him. So many reasons to kill you now, Krong thought. Which shall I choose? “I told you it was them,” the Denebian sputtered. “And I was right and they’re almost here.” The reek of Spaytak’s breath was almost more than Krong could stand. What is this idiot babbling about? the Klingon wondered. Is he still going on about the Federation captain? He tugged his blade from his belt and prepared to surreptitiously slip it between Spaytak’s ribs, but a flutter of motion by the door caught his attention.

“Here they are!” a new voice shouted. Four more Denebians-three small and one gigantic-stood clustered near the entrance, all of them pointing at a pair of slim figures who were wincing against the glare of the bright overhead lights. “We did it! It was us! Where’s our money?” The three small Denebians chattered and prattled mindlessly, while the fourth-the giant-merely pointed, an empty, foolish grin on his face.

One of the slim figures batted away the Denebians’ pointing fingers and strode forward. Despite the unnervingly bright lights, Krong saw that he was, in fact, a human and though he wore a nondescript jacket, he believed the clothing underneath might actually be a Starfleet uniform. The Klingon felt the underpinnings of his universe suddenly come undone. Had he been wrong? Had these idiots, against all hope, actually found him a prize that might buy him back his lost honor and a ticket to the Klingon homeworld?

Whoever the man was, he clearly did not feel threatened by the Denebians. “What in the name of heaven is going on here?” He looked at one of the small Denebians and said, “You said you were taking us to your…” He stared around at the establishment’s grimy walls, the smoked mirrors, and the line of sticky bottles behind the bar. “I hope this isn’t your aunt’s because if it is, she needs to work on her housekeeping.”

The three small Denebians closed in around the figure and one said, “Hey! You can’t say that about our aunt!”

Spaytak stepped forward and shouted, “Would you numskulls shut up and close the door!”

Krong slid off his barstool and, squinting against the light, approached the human, stopping less than an arm’s length away. He had met only a few Terrans in his time and most of those only at a distance, but the face of the Enterprise’s captain was well-known to every warrior of the Empire. Most humans looked alike to him, but this man-he might be the right age, and there was something about the shape of his face that seemed familiar. Without really knowing what he was doing, he asked, “Kirk?”

The human stared back, suddenly aware of who was staring him in the face. Sneering-Krong thought it was a sneer-he asked, “What the hell is a Klingon doing here?”

Krong had to concede that at least the human didn’t seem one bit fearful. He responded, “What the hell is a Starfleet captain doing here?”

The human drew back, then looked over his shoulder at his companion, who, up to that point, Krong had ignored. The second figure, Krong saw, was another human. A small, fragile object that resided in the Klingon’s chest, something that he briefly recognized as hope, crumbled and was lost to the darkness. Pointing at the second human, he looked over at Spaytak and asked, “You thought that was Spock?”

“It is Spock,” the Denebian insisted.

“He’s a human.”

“So?”

“Spock is a Vulcan. Have you ever even seen a Vulcan?”

The second human, who had been quite docile, even sleepy, suddenly stepped forward and, eyebrows twitching, blurted, “You thought I was who?”

Suddenly, Krong noted, everyone was holding a chair or a stool or a bottle, or some other kind of makeshift weapon. The first human, the one who Spaytak had mistaken for Kirk, grinned broadly and said, “As if there was any other way to end such an enjoyable evening…”

“This way, Captain.” Spock pointed his tricorder at a shabby building near the end of a narrow opening that might charitably have been called an alley. A tepid miasma clung near the ground as the early-morning sun heated the slick cobblestones. Kirk wished he could hold his nose, but decided that the stance would be undignified. Not that anyone was around, but there were conventions to be observed.

“What do you think they were doing down here, Spock?”

“I cannot say, Captain. Lodgings, perhaps?”

Kirk nodded and they headed down the shadowy alley. He knew he should have brought along a security detail, but this was a nonaligned world, and he didn’t want Starfleet’s presence to be provocative. Rolling his shoulders, limbering up, Kirk strode to the door Spock indicated, his hand never far from his phaser.

Rusty hinges creaked as the door slowly swung open. Kirk and Spock, both well-schooled in the practice of entering potentially hostile locations, flattened their backs against the doorframe. The interior was dimly illuminated by a handful of guttering candles throwing jagged shadows in every direction. Kirk instinctively held his breath and heard a series of raspy groans. In the corner farthest from the door, he detected the shifting of shadows that indicated sudden movement. Inhaling deeply, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline, he bunched his muscles to leap into the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, some part of Kirk recognized that he was grinning, that he was about to do something, be something, that he hadn’t done or been in too long a time: the man of action. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like…

“Jim! Hey, how the hell are you!?”

Few things in life could have made Leonard McCoy much happier at that moment than to see his friend and commanding officer standing in a doorway looking so confused and, well, disappointed. Yes, it’s petty, McCoy thought. And cynical and might even be considered a court-martial offense in some schools of thought, but having the starch taken out of him once in a while means he won’t get a stiff neck. McCoy chuckled to himself, then winced at the pain in his chest. Might be a cracked rib, he thought. Maybe two. I’ll have to look at that as soon as we get back to the ship. Interestingly, the idea of returning to the Enterprise did not bother him. Possibly, he considered, because I know I won’t have to stay there forever if I don’t want to. At that thought, he toasted himself and sipped some more of the bloodwine. The stuff wasn’t nearly so bad after the first or second glass; the faint background note of steel wool actually became enjoyable after a bit.

In the doorway, Kirk finally released his breath and said, “Bones?”

“Come on in. Watch out for the… Well, over there in a heap by the door.”

The captain and first officer stepped gingerly into the room, careful to avoid treading on the unconscious Spaytak and his brothers.

“Fancy a mug of bloodwine, gentlemen?” Scotty asked cheerfully.

“Bloodwine?” Kirk asked dubiously. “You couldn’t find anything better?”

“Better?” Krong asked, trying to rise. That surprised McCoy. The Klingon had drunk at least one cask of wine by himself since the three of them had settled in after the brawl, and who knew how much beforehand? Also, Spaytak had stabbed Krong twice during their fight and he had lost some blood. McCoy had sealed up the wounds and normally would have offered the patient something for pain, but he was pretty sure Krong wasn’t feeling any pain. “What could possibly be better?!” the Klingon bellowed.

Spock arched an eyebrow. Kirk’s eyes widened. McCoy savored the moment.

“Ah, sit down, Krong,” Scotty said before the Klingon could even get out of his chair. Looking up at his captain, the engineer said, “He doesn’t mean anything by it, sir. Our friend here is just overly excited because of the exciting new vistas that seemed to have appeared before him.”

“Exciting new vistas…” the Klingon repeated.

“Your friend?” Jim asked, then turned to look around the barroom. Obviously, his eyes had adjusted to the murk because McCoy saw the captain fix his gaze on various pieces of broken furniture. “I wish someone would explain what happened here. And why didn’t either of you answer your communicators when the Enterprise called.”

“Och!” Scott exclaimed. “So that’s what that sound was! I thought it was something that came out of the skinny fellow with the mustache when Krong made him eat his mug.”

“And as for what’s happened here,” McCoy said, a pleasant sensation of weariness filtering through him, “let’s just call it the inevitable result of spending too much time in one place.”

“You were only here for a day,” Kirk said.

“I do not think he means Denebia, Captain,” Spock interjected. McCoy was surprised to hear the comment come from the first officer, but the two locked gazes for a lingering moment. Something in his eyes made the doctor wonder if he was the only one who was feeling like it was time for a change.

Kirk cocked an eyebrow, but did not comment further. Instead, he said, “We should get back to the ship.”

“Aye!” Scotty said. “I need to see my wee bairns.”

“Aye!” said the Klingon. “I also need to see his… whatever he called them.”

“You’re gonna love the Enterprise,” McCoy told Krong.

The captain became alarmed. “Scotty, Bones… he’s a Klingon.”

“Aye, aye. True,” Scott said. “And a fair-to-middlin’ barroom brawler if I’m any judge. But he’s not really a bad fellow and I think he needs to get off this planet, seeing as he assaulted several locals in the process of saving us from… well, I want to say peril, but I’m not sure exactly how perilous our peril was.”

“Perilous peril!” Krong shouted, then laid his head down on the table and began to snore loudly.

“I think I can keep him asleep until we can drop him off on some other neutral planet, Jim,” McCoy said, very much looking forward to the possibility of sleep himself. No insomnia tonight…

“But he’s a Klingon officer!” Kirk said. “What can I tell Starfleet if they find out?”

“Tell them,” McCoy said, “that you’re the captain of the Enterprise. That should still count for something?”

Kirk flinched slightly, like someone had just lightly slapped his cheek. He stared down at McCoy for a long second, then turned to look at Scotty and finally at Spock. “I suppose,” he finally said, “that it should.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them impatiently. “Let’s get going.”

McCoy rose, enjoying the ache in his back and chest. “Whatever you say, sir.” And to himself, he added, You are the captain. For a little while longer, at least. And after that, we’ll just have to see what the future brings.

Standing, Scott clapped a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, producing a groan. “You surprised me a bit tonight during our brawl, Doctor,” he said softly. “You’re a man of unexpected talents. The way you took down that fella with the neck pinch.”

“Best not to mention that too loudly, Mr. Scott. The walls have ears, you know.”

“Aye, that they do.” Leaning down to help Krong up out of his chair, Scott surveyed the trashed barroom and commented wistfully, “Not bad for a couple old fellows, eh?”

McCoy grinned and reached for the Klingon’s other arm. “Old, Scotty?” he said. “Speak for yourself.”

Make-Believe